


Aylmeri

by Kryptaria



Series: The Gauntlet [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Dom!Q, Light BDSM, M/M, Porn With Plot, Sub!Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 09:28:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A city-wide blackout in the middle of a summer storm leaves Bond and Q stranded in their flat, with no refuge from the heat.</p><p>  <i>“If you manage to keep your hands on the railing, I’ll let you have me over my desk — with XCOM protocols engaged,” Q added sternly, meeting Bond’s eyes. They’d already had one or two disagreements over appropriate workplace behaviour. Q was far too worried about his reputation, as far as Bond was concerned.</i></p><p>  <i>“And if not?”</i></p><p>  <i>“Well, that doesn’t really matter. I can have you any way I like, can’t I?”</i></p><p>Sequel to Bal-Chatri; can be read standalone.<br/><b>Aylmeri: </b>A safe type of jesses used in falconry to tether a bird of prey while on a trainer's gauntlet or perch. While wearing jesses, a trained bird of prey can fly free and hunt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aylmeri

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [ this .gif ](http://kryptaria.tumblr.com/post/40446714368/reblogging-because-the-fic-will-be-up-shortly)
> 
> Thanks as always to my lovely team of betas and cheerleaders: CousinCecily, Jennybel75, BootsnBlossoms, Snogandagrope, and Mitaya!
> 
> ~~~

Summer heat choked the air from Bond’s lungs. The rain brought no relief — only damp and fog — and he knew that the damned power company wouldn’t have their bloody act together for days. He looked into the night-black flat where Q had disappeared into the shower almost an hour ago. He was tempted — Christ, he was tempted — but it was even hotter inside.

London was black as hell, with only emergency lighting and a few headlamps piercing the darkness, and Bond thought longingly of the secure MI6 tunnels. He and Q could just go hibernate under XCOM protocols until excavators found their corpses in a few years. At least they’d die happy.

Motion inside the flat made Bond’s fingers twitch towards the gun on the table. There were looters out there in the night, and though there wasn’t a chance in hell that they’d make it into his building and up twenty-seven flights of stairs, Bond wouldn’t risk Q’s safety. So he kept the weapon close at hand even here in the rain. He’d covered it with the plastic lid from the takeaway salad he’d had for dinner. He wasn’t on a health food kick; he just couldn’t stand the thought of food that was cooked. With heat.

Q appeared in the doorway, a pale ghost, all unscarred skin and long limbs, with a hateful little towel around his waist. Trained to disarm an enemy, Bond immediately thought of five ways he could get that towel away before Q could even blink, except that it was too bloody hot to even move.

“You don’t have to stay,” Q said sympathetically. He disappeared inside for just a moment. Bond heard a clatter. Then he reappeared without his glasses, looking closer to his actual age without the dark plastic frames.

“And leave you here to die alone of heatstroke?” Bond lazily reached out for Q, wishing that the raindrops bouncing off his skin would actually help him cool down. London hadn’t had a breath of wind since the blackout hit, as if the local weather patterns were influenced by the countless thousands of ventilation fans atop the skyscrapers, all gone still. “Besides, I’m waiting for the rioting. I haven’t seen a good riot in years.”

“You’re bored,” Q accused, lacing his fingers with Bond’s. He let Bond draw him out onto the balcony, into the rain. He lifted Bond’s hand and nibbled at his fingertips, eyes closing for a moment. “We could go to the office.”

“Sod the office. They’d expect us to work, and we don’t get paid overtime. If we go to the bloody office, it’s so I can fuck you over your desk.”

In the darkness, Q’s expression was almost impossible to decipher.

Almost.

For the first time since the the power had gone out, Bond felt a different sort of fire within, crackling to life at the way Q challenged him. Every single person in Bond’s life would eventually fold to him, if pressed in just the right way. Even Mallory, the new top dog, had bared his throat once or twice when Bond thought the issue important enough to stand his ground.

All but Q.

In that precise, perfectly schooled voice of his, Q said, “If anyone’s to be fucked over my desk, Bond, it’s you.”

“I’ve seen your self-defence test results, Q. You couldn’t keep me down long enough.”

Q closed the last step between them. The damp towel around his hips brushed against Bond’s bare knees, just below his rain-soaked boxers. “Let’s put that to the test, shall we?”

The fire turned into a blaze. Bond hid his grin and reached for Q’s towel. “Or I could just have you here.”

Q went still, staring at Bond in the darkness. He made no move to stop Bond, but the displeasure radiated from him, an almost-tangible energy filling the air.

“James,” was all he said, his voice going even quieter. The _s_ was clipped, shortened, turning the soft sound of his name into a sharp command.

Bond exhaled. As the first hint of adrenaline started to seep into his blood, he lowered his hand back to his side for a moment. Then, defiantly, he crossed his arms and said, “You’re the one —”

“Hands on the railing, James,” Q interrupted, taking a step back.

Bond shivered at Q’s absence, even though they hadn’t actually touched beyond their hands. The air of authority in Q’s voice soothed the sharp spikes scraping at Bond’s thoughts, urging him to act, to fight, to do _something_ other than stand here and wish he were dead from the heat.

Slowly, he unfolded his arms and took hold of the wet balcony railing to either side of his hips. He no longer felt the heat clogging his lungs, making him sluggish and irritable.

Q looked him over, taking his time to study whatever details he could without his glasses, in the rain and dark. Bond’s fingers tightened; he could feel Q’s regard like a touch on each inch of his skin. Being the object of Q’s intense focus pushed the rest of the city one more step away.

“If you manage to keep your hands on the railing, I’ll let you have me over my desk — _with_ XCOM protocols engaged,” Q added sternly, meeting Bond’s eyes. They’d already had one or two disagreements over appropriate workplace behaviour. Q was far too worried about his reputation, as far as Bond was concerned.

“And if not?”

“Well, that doesn’t really matter. I can have you any way I like, can’t I?”

Bond’s pulse sped up another notch. Technically, that was a lie, and they both knew it. Q could push all he wanted — Bond encouraged it, in fact — but it was Bond who had the power to refuse anything at all, for any reason.

It was a game, yet it was as deadly serious as any mission. And Bond nodded, his throat tight. “Yes, sir.”

“Then I suggest you keep your hands where they are,” Q said, unwrapping the towel from his waist. He folded it and laid it on the wet balcony at Bond’s feet, and then lowered himself to his knees.

Bond hissed in a breath and closed his eyes as Q slowly, carefully pulled at the waistband of Bond’s boxers. The wet fabric clung to his skin until Q gently eased it down, never once allowing his fingers to brush against Bond’s abruptly erect cock or balls. Bond locked his muscles tight, fingers latching onto the railing, and tipped his head back to feel the rain on his face. He could selfishly say that he didn’t get to feel Q’s mouth nearly as often as he would like, but that wasn’t strictly true. This was, in fact, Q’s preferred way of stripping Bond’s defences and accomplishing what a dozen or more enemies across the world had never managed: getting James Bond to beg.

Now, Q pulled the pants down as far as he could before the elastic caught halfway down Bond’s calves, stretched to its limits. Bond didn’t move until Q tapped his left foot; then he shifted his weight to the right and let Q pull the fabric off. At Q’s signal, he switched sides, and then the boxers went flying through the open door to the flat.

Q’s first touch was not with his hands but with his tongue, a gentle swipe up the front of Bond’s cock that came without warning or prelude. Bond snapped his teeth shut on a gasp and told himself to think about the rain and the miserable weather and the fact that he hadn’t had a decent meal or a good night’s sleep since they’d lost power.

Then Q’s tongue reached the head, curled up and over, a bit of gentle pressure at the slit, before it was gone.

Bond’s exhale was sharp, sharper than he liked. The heat had driven them apart, and now his body was screaming for Q to take him hard and fast — not to tease him like this.

He knew how to incite that passion in Q. For all that Q was the dominant partner, to their mutual pleasure, Q liked a bit of rough handling. All Bond had to do was bury his fingers in that long, wet hair and take Q’s mouth, and Q’s resolve would crumble. Bond would come down Q’s throat — and Christ, the first time he’d done that, he’d damned near fainted — and then Q would retaliate with a good, hard fucking, and they’d both be too thoroughly pleased to give a damn about the weather.

But Q’s challenge had been one step short of a command, and Bond knew that if he did hold back, Q would make the effort worth his while. So he pulled in another breath and tried to think about the rain, and Q dipped his head low for another long, slow lick.

~~~

In all his years of government service, first with the Royal Navy, later with MI6, Bond had studied more combat techniques than he could readily count. All of them put an inordinate emphasis on breathing, and not one of them was worth a damn now, no matter he tried. He’d get two seconds into a deep, focusing inhale before Q’s mouth went from light and teasing to the sort of suction that threatened to rip an orgasm from Bond, ready or not. He’d hold his breath, only to gasp when Q’s tongue swiped over his balls. His exhales were stuttering, ragged things as Q’s teeth scraped lightly over sensitive skin, sending sparks straight up Bond’s spine.

Now, it was all he could do to breathe, simply so he could stay conscious. _Don’t let go_ was a chant that played in the back of his mind, repeating until the words were nonsense sounds and his knuckles burned with the effort of holding the bloody railing. He wanted to come — needed the release — but he couldn’t articulate the thought that was drowned out in the knowledge that Q was doing this, and Bond would do anything, endure anything for Q. And when Q finally, _finally_ knelt back on his heels and spoke, Bond just stared at him, thinking that the torture was over without actually hearing his words.

“I said, let go of the railing, turn around, and take hold of it once more, James,” Q ordered, looking up at him in the darkness.

Bond pried his hands off the railing and turned, hanging his head as he tried to keep his balance. Below, the distant street was a river of black punctuated only here and there by the sweep of headlights from the few cars that dared London without traffic signals. He took hold of the wet bar again, only to have Q’s hands wrap around his hips and pull him back — one step, two steps — until he was braced against the railing, feet far back and spread.

Only the thinnest thread of rational thought remained to tell him that he might well have won this contest of Q’s, but he was detached from it, separated from the far-off reality of anything but his immediate surroundings. The situational awareness that crawled over and through and inside him all the time, like the static of a low-voltage current, had finally grounded itself with Q’s presence, leaving Bond silent and yet vitally alive inside. He could wait like this forever, patient, focused solely on Q’s will.

He heard a footstep behind him, and Q touched his thigh. “Very good,” he said, and the words wrapped around Bond’s thoughts, affectionate and strong. Bond didn’t have it in him to respond, but there was no need. Q was already moving — a brush of rough wet terrycloth against Bond’s feet as he adjusted the towel where he’d been kneeling, a touch on one ankle to adjust Bond’s stance.

Bond went back to breathing, aware of the heavy weight of desire pulling at him. The absence of Q’s mouth on his cock left it cold despite the hot air that stifled all of London. A part of Bond’s mind was ready to break and demand more — or maybe plead for more instead — but the rest of him was content. He trusted Q to know exactly what he was doing.

One finger brushed behind Bond’s balls. He flinched in surprise, but then arched his back, opening to the touch that drew up over his skin. As soon as Q’s finger brushed over his entrance, Bond flinched again, pleasurable little shocks rattling his composure. His heart sped up with anticipation.

Then, the finger dropped away, and Bond felt a new warmth — Q’s breath, sending shivers across Bond’s rain-damp skin. Q’s hands settled gently on Bond’s hips, holding him still, as his tongue followed his exhale.

When the tip touched Bond’s entrance, he twitched forward in surprise. Q’s fingers dug in, pressing over Bond’s hipbones. Then Q licked deliberately, a flick of his tongue, and Bond’s breath broke on a quiet, wordless sound. The serenity in his head shattered not into awareness and reality but into something new, his thoughts narrowed entirely to focus on the third swipe of Q’s tongue.

Q settled back, petting Bond, fingertips drawing little circles over his hips. Slowly, Bond’s racing heart found a steady beat, fast but no longer dizzying. He breathed in. Out. In again. Rain traced patterns over his scalp and through his hair, trailing down his face and neck in little rivers.

Again, Q moved forward. His exhale was a warning and a promise.

This time, the touch of Q’s tongue wasn’t light and fleeting. It was a deliberate press, a torturously slow lick from behind his balls to the base of his spine, with enough pressure to tease at his tight entrance. Bond didn’t know if he wanted to pull away or push back. He needed more, but even this was almost too much.

Q held his hips tightly and did it again, this time stopping, pressing his tongue as far as he could. The pressure was softer than a fingertip, searing hot and wet, and it lit up Bond’s nerves like an electrical shock. His cock twitched violently, and his balls ached.

Bond fought for his next breath. He shifted his weight back, and Q’s hand moved to slap hard against his thigh in warning. Bond’s whole body shuddered in response. Q’s hand went back to his hip, Q’s tongue went back to Bond’s arse, and Bond forgot how to breathe all over again.

With the same slow, methodical patience Q always displayed, he licked and teased until Bond became aware that words were falling from him, a quiet, meaningless string of cursing and pleading all twisted together. His skin was tingling, crawling with sensation, and he was slow to notice the departure of Q’s tongue and hands. He still clenched the railing for the simple reason that without it to balance against he’d fall. He dropped his head below his outstretched arms and breathed, gasping for oxygen like a drowning man breaking the water’s surface. He _needed_ to come, but he didn’t even consider letting go to reach a hand between his legs. Q wanted him here, as he was. He trusted Q.

Then he let out a shuddering, broken breath as he felt the blunt, deliberate push of Q’s cock, slick with lubricant and rain. Bond wasn’t prepared, and the touch burned. Q rested one hand lightly on Bond’s back, giving him the freedom to move away if it was too much, but Bond pushed back instead, desperate to feel Q inside him. It felt incredible, pain overwhelming him with a searing fire that cleansed everything in his mind, leaving behind nothing but ash and peace and the knowledge that he and Q were together.

When the glans finally pushed inside Bond's body, Q whispered, “James.”

The word was like a caress, like strong arms surrounding him, and the burn eased a bit more as he relaxed under Q’s approval. Q ran his fingers up Bond’s spine, shifting the paths the rain followed over his skin, and eased into him slowly. Bond could feel every inch as it slipped past nerves made sensitive by Q’s tongue, and his heart started to race all over again. He was shuddering, his breath ragged, as his body fought his desire for _more_. He couldn’t bring himself to push back and refused to allow himself to pull away.

“Easy,” Q said softly as his hips finally pressed against Bond’s arse. He stroked his hand down Bond’s spine, sweeping the water slowly out of its path. “Relax. I’ve got you, love.”

Slowly, Bond adjusted, until the pleasurable pressure deep inside outweighed the deep, hot pain. He breathed and dared to shift, arching his spine and rolling his hips up and back, allowing Q to slip a tiny bit deeper inside him.

Q’s laugh was soft and wicked. “Ready, then, are you?” he asked.

Bond had no words to answer. All he could do was push back from the railing, wordlessly surrendering himself to Q.

Q petted Bond’s hip once. Then he moved, easing his cock out, smooth and slow, until just the head pressed into Bond’s body. He shifted direction, flowing back in, and started to fuck Bond with a languid, lazy rhythm, just enough to light fireworks behind Bond’s closed eyelids with every slide over his prostate.

He gasped, breath falling into rhythm with Q’s strokes, and heat spread through his body, spreading a slow burn that coiled deep in his balls with building urgency. He rocked back, matching Q’s rhythm for a few strokes before he pushed harder into Q’s thrusts, needing more.

Abruptly, Q stopped, pulling almost completely free of Bond’s body. Bond lifted his head, only to feel Q’s fingers twist in his hair and pull. “Let me do this,” Q said, easing his grasp at once. He petted Bond’s wet hair back down against his head and then dragged his fingers over Bond’s neck, soothingly. “Just feel it.”

Bond nodded, blowing out a breath. He pushed aside his instinct to fight back, to coax Q into giving him what he wanted.

Maddeningly, Q remained still, one hand resting between Bond’s shoulderblades, cock pulled nearly out of his arse. Bond breathed and clenched his hands on the railing. His whole body seemed centered to those few points of contact, his heartbeat echoed deep inside his body and under the touch of Q’s skin.

Slowly, so slowly, he found his balance again. He breathed deeply and felt the rain tracing down his skin, and the arousal choking the breath from his lungs finally eased.

“Good, James,” Q said, his voice soft over the sound of the rain and Bond’s own heartbeat. He eased back into Bond’s body, now relaxed and open to him, sparking pure pleasure through them both. Q’s words broke apart into a quiet, pleased groan like fog scattered by wind.

Distantly, Bond thought he could do this forever. The desire — the need for release — was still building inside him, but this was good. Better than good. Better than the oblivion of drink or the rushing, adrenaline-fuelled high of combat, not knowing or caring if he’d live or die. It was a delicious blend of _want_  and _need_ and _surrender_ , and all he had to do was _take_.

They might have spent half the night trapped in an endless cycle, desire climbing slowly towards its peak like a sandcastle rising one grain at a time. Rain and sweat dripped into puddles around Bond’s feet. He stared down at the little gap between the smoked plexiglas balustrade and the balcony, watching the pinprick headlamps on the cars driving far below.

Q’s fingertips pressed against Bond’s muscles, digging in. He thrust harder, making Bond’s breath escape in a gasp as the trickle of sensation turned into a rush. “James,” Q whispered over the rain. “James.”

After one last thrust, Q went still, cock buried deep inside Bond’s arse, hand flat against his back, shuddering slightly with the force of his orgasm. His hands pressed against Bond’s back, steadying himself as he took deep breaths. For long seconds, they stood together in the rain and silent darkness.

Then, slowly, he pulled out, dragging his hand down Bond’s back to rest on his hip. Bond’s whole body shivered at the loss, but he didn’t move, other than to breathe.

“James.” Q’s voice was breathless, and Bond felt a sense of satisfaction curl through him, despite the ache in his untouched cock. Q called him by his first name only rarely; after years in the military, Bond had stopped using his first name, except when dealing with civilians on missions. From Q, though, it had become something more — something intimate and private.

“Stand up. Turn around,” Q urged, guiding Bond with hands on his hips. He reached back for the railing, only to have Q catch hold of his hands. Bond watched as Q went to his knees in front of him again, not even bothering with the towel, and guided Bond’s hands to his wet hair.

The feel of Q’s mouth closing around his cock was almost enough to undo him. His fingers clenched tight, and Q made a small, surprised sound in his throat. His hands curved around Bond’s thighs, gently pulling him closer.

In the dark night, Bond couldn’t see Q’s eyes. Shaking with tension, he shifted forward, a hint of motion, and Q’s fingers pressed again, urging Bond’s hips forward. Carefully at first, Bond pushed his cock into Q’s mouth until he felt the press of his throat. Backing off slightly, Q coughed, shifted his position, and then dug his short nails into Bond’s skin. Bond hissed in surprise, and his next thrust was harder. Q held Bond’s legs for balance and worked his tongue against the underside of Bond’s cock.

Encouraged, Bond thrust into Q’s mouth to chase the building pleasure, but it was already too much. The orgasm rushed through him without warning, staggering him.

Q’s hands steadied Bond as he sank down to the wet balcony and leaned against the plexiglas balustrade. “You’re incredible, James,” Q said softly, resting his head on Bond’s knee for a moment. His hand petted Bond’s chest.

“Christ, the things you do to me,” Bond muttered, covering Q’s hand with his own. He scrubbed the rain out of his eyes.

Q laughed. “The things you _let_ me to do you,” he said, pushing up to his feet. “You win, you know.”

Bond laughed softly; he’d forgotten the reward for meeting Q’s challenge. “And if you hadn’t thoroughly exhausted me, we’d be driving to headquarters right now.”

“Yes, well, I’m afraid you’d be out of luck. At the moment, all I want is another shower.”

Bond opened his eyes and looked up at Q, pale skin visible even in the blacked-out night. “How about some company?”

Q smiled and held out his hand.


End file.
